Lauren Hawkeye - My Royal Sin / Playing Dirty

“And each one is superb. I’ve studied his works.” I’ve seen most of them over the years. They are all of Ruby’s dreamy, heavenly face contrasted with a different hyperrealistic dystopian cityscape.

“My brother was set up, I just don’t know why.” With one shuddering inhalation she composes herself. “Anyway, this is not your concern. I remember your library. Art is not the only thing you study. You are fascinated by tales of pleasure, as well. I swear on my life you know more about the erotic arts than Madam herself.”

I nod. “I seek to understand beauty, for to know beauty is to know the face of God.” Strange. Until this moment I’ve never articulated this idea, either in thoughts or words.

She ducks her chin, a little shy, and stares up between her curtain of golden hair. “And to you, pleasure is beautiful?”

“I believe there is a sacred union of the body and soul when it comes to sex.” I begin to pace, assuming the tone of the professor, not a stretch considering I hold a PhD in Sacred Theology from the University of Edenvale. “Sexuality has the power to be as explosive as dynamite, and when used properly, it can be a tool that moves mountains. And if used improperly, it can grow volatile and wreak untold destruction.”

Her brows knit. “Yet you deny yourself.”

“I have what you could call an arranged marriage,” I say wryly. “My intended bride is to be the church.”

She lets out a frustrated huff, opening the door and disappearing for a moment. There is a rustling from the bathroom, and she emerges clutching a small vial. “I found arnica.” She uncorks the lid and takes a tentative sniff. “It appears to be mixed with lavender oil.”

“A medicinal ointment.” I nod my head. “Useful to treat all manner of aches and pains.”

“Let me do this.” She clutches the bottle, eyes wide. “Heal you.”

I take a step backward and find myself in a corner. “Why do you want to?”

“Because I think you are a good man. And the marks on your back make me want to cry. They also make me angry at God because why would He demand you to punish yourself for feelings that you admit are natural?”

“Sacrifice is holy,” I tell her, repeating the lessons I’ve been taught my whole life.

“If lust is an impulse that must be literally beaten from your flesh, then you are giving God something that is unclean, unholy. Why would He want such an offering?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, impressed at the depth of her impassioned response. “You’d make quite the scholar, Miss Vernazza.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “Not anymore. Now I am simply Ruby.” She strides forward, pouring ointment into her open palm. “And you are trying to distract me from my task like a naughty patient. Sit.” Her tone brokers no dissent.

I move to a wooden chair and sink to the seat.

“Let’s see how extensive the damage is.” She peruses my back, her long hair tickling my bare skin. Her silence stretches for the length of a minute. “Benedict,” she says, my name a sigh from her lips. “So much pain.” Her fingertips press on my throbbing skin, the welts from the whip. The lavender scent of the ointment floods my senses, but is nothing compared to the intense vibrations sent out across my flesh from her soft, circular massage.

“Let’s see if we can make you feel better,” she whispers in my ear.

Ruby

His skin is like fire under my touch, the raised welts tearing at my heart as my fingers travel over each one.

“Benedict,” I say, but I don’t know what comes next. His name falls so easily from my lips, yet I know the skin I touch blazes not only with the heat of desire but that of intense, overwhelming guilt. It is the skin not just of a man but of royalty; a world in which I do not belong, save for my likeness hanging on his wall.

His head droops.

“Have I hurt you?” I ask, afraid I am doing more harm than good.

He gives his head a soft shake. “The way you say my name,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I meant Your Highness.”

“No,” he assures me. “It is not that.” I listen and continue to massage the salve over his wounds. “The way you say Benedict, it makes me feel...known.”

“Oh,” I say, my hands pausing but never leaving his skin. “I’m not sure what to do with that,” I admit.

“Nothing.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Only God can truly know me,” he says. “That is my chosen path.”

I step around the chair to face him, and he lifts his head.

“Did you really choose that path, Benedict? Or was it chosen for you?”

His green eyes are a storm of emotion, yet his words are the picture of calm.

“How I got here is of no matter,” he says. “This is my path, and I shall not stray.”

I kneel and place my hands on his thighs. He takes a ragged breath, and I expect him to push me away. But he doesn’t. So I decide to push. Not because of what the Madam assigned me to do and not to push Benedict toward failure if, in fact, this is not what he wants. The entire realm envies the royal family, yet I wonder what anyone in a position such as Benedict—or any member of his family for that matter—gets to choose.

“If you had a choice right now,” I ask, “if you could have something you wanted that you thought you didn’t deserve, what would it be?”

He leans against the chair and winces. He is in more pain than he’s letting on.

“Is this more truth or dare?” he asks, forcing himself to smile through the pain, but his feigned attempt at levity does not work on me.

“No games,” I say. “We already did that, so I’m technically off the clock. I want you to choose something for you.”

He places his hands atop mine, his fingers circling my wrists.

“To voice such a thing would be selfish.”

I laugh even as tears prick at my eyes. How many times have I wanted something just for myself only to give it up for someone else? To have the luxury of acting on one selfish wish? I would take it in an instant.

“Then be selfish, Benedict. You are not a priest, not yet. And from what I know of your religion, until you take your final vows, you may do as you please. This is a new millennium. You’re young, fairly easy on the eyes.” I grin. “You could have any woman you want, and yet you deny yourself. Why?”

He grips me tighter, lifting my palms from his legs.

“To save myself for God,” he says through gritted teeth.

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t believe that. After what you had me do tonight, I know you want. I know you are tempted. Why not act on those temptations while you can?”

Now he does throw my hands from him, and he springs from the chair, pacing the length of the room. He runs a hand through his hair, tearing at it as he does.

“Benedict,” I say, standing and heading toward the wall. “Benedict, you’re scaring me.”

He stops before me, chest heaving and his emerald eyes wide.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to burrow into the wall to escape whatever is coming. I have forgotten myself tonight—forgotten who I am and what it is that I do. I have forgotten that this man, this prince, is nothing more than my client, and a displeased client takes his frustrations out on the whore. I have heard the stories. I have seen the aftermath. It’s more than a surprising slap across the face from the Madam.

I just didn’t think it would happen to me so soon.

“Ruby,” he says, his voice as gentle as a whisper, and I open my eyes. My hands are still balled into fists, and I realize I’m holding my breath. “Heavens, Ruby, no. Did you think—I could never—”

A tear escapes the corner of my eye, my fear finally getting the best of me, and he swipes it away with a thumb. Only then do I exhale.